We who walk the common pathway
Of this lower world of ours,
Sometimes live in double seeming,
Plucking thorns and flowers.

Sometimes know a dual being,—
Moments full of passion gleam,
When the hurrying crowd beside us
Fades as in a dream

And the slumbering soul within us
Wakes to an unwonted glow,
Thrilling as the springtime blossoms
Under winter's snow.

Though they call us prince or peasant,
Silken robed or hodden gray,
Equal stand we in the presence
Of that inner day.

And we rise in might triumphant,
Burning with a high desire,
As on old heroic altars
Flamed the sacred fire.

Longing for the crash of battle,
When amid the weaponed din
Sturdy spirits enter freely
Glorious meed to win.

Longing for the good beyond us,
For a glimpse of Him who waits
Throned within the shining city
And the radiant gates.

Longing! Is it only longing?
Are the thoughts that come and go
Still to die like summer blossoms
Under winter's snow?

Are they only idle fancies,
Falsely fair to rise and shine,
Or, indeed, the blessed gleaming
Of a spark divine?

Who shall tell us through the silence.
Though we ask with longing fond,—
Till we pass and find our answers
Waiting us beyond!